Winter kitchen
by Jenny Dunbar
Quince, the golden peach
its essence blooming from glass jars, just sealed,
aromatic, warm,
raw November banished,
retreating through opaque windows,
I close my eyes, taste the air, redolent of the hours,
those carriers of narrative, each facet a glimpse of time remembered,
an affirmation of then and now,
a particle held captive in its amber pool,
the essential blemish,
that grounding mark, reminding me that perfection distracts,
there is always another layer,
a lifting of the lid,
promise of process between seed and harvest,
touching earth,
this year has gifted the maker with bounty,
as if the sands of time ran too fast
we husbanded with acknowledgement and skill,
intuiting the all too precious moments,
lost and found,
as we passed through together
in remembrance of warmth in the soul
